I'm not in Love
by CassandraRoseCrane
Summary: She let him talk her into a date, but she didn't count on the feelings that came afterward.


**I'm Not in Love**

**Part I- First Date**

"Would you like to dance?"

His words startled her out of her silent reverie, causing her to look up from where she had been staring at the candle sitting in the middle of their table. She raised an eyebrow, and stared at him with a somewhat mocking glint in her eyes as a reply.

Ignoring her look, he gestured across the restaurant to the orchestra pit, from which music had begun to flow. "If you'd like to, I can assure you that you'll be in good hands."

"I'm sure I would be," she smirked, pointedly not moving from her seat. She calmly reached for her water glass- he had noticed that she hadn't touched her flute of champagne all night- and took a sip from it.

His eyes watched her unabashedly as she drank, admiring the way the light shone over her pearl necklace as she titled her head back, the way the material of her dress came to rest on the edge of each of her slender shoulders. She immediately noticed that he was staring at her when she placed her glass back on the table, and her expression turned from contemptuous to completely icy. He held her gaze, however, refusing to let her stare him down. "Of course, if you _can't_ dance, I understand," he said offhandedly, flashing one of his brilliant smiles at her.

That did it. She blinked and her lips parted slightly in indignation. "Actually I can dance rather well. Only I didn't want to dance with you." She gracefully stood and walked to his side. "Perhaps we could dance just long enough for me to prove to you that I'm not inept? Unless you're not as good a dancer as you claim to be, in which case we should stay here."

"Fair enough." He stood too, accepting the challenge. He attempted to take her arm, but she was already walking off before he could. Amused, he followed her retreating form to the dance floor, where they joined several other couples. The satin of her black and white dress brushed against his hands as she entered his arms with surprising nonchalance.

It occurred to him then that this was the closest he had ever been to her. She was quite stunning for someone her age. Studying her near-flawless, perfectly composed features only made him more determined to break through the facade. He had sensed from the first time they had met that there was more to her than she let on, and he had made it his mission to take advantage of the vulnerability he knew existed in her once he was able to expose it.

Her blue eyes stared questioningly up at him. She had incredible eyes. He certainly would have no objections if she wound up in his bed later that night. "Why do you keep staring at me?" she demanded in a quiet voice that did little to hide her annoyance.

"I'm sorry. It's just that you're very beautiful, Miranda."

She rolled her eyes. It was doubtful that his compliment was sincere, though she did like hearing the words. "Oh, please. Spare me the lines and lead properly."

He realized that he had been so wrapped up in his thoughts of her that he hadn't been paying attention to his dancing. It wouldn't do to let her think that he was a bad dancer, especially since he had tricked her into dancing with him in the first place. Also, it was quickly becoming apparent that she was a very impatient person. With her, there was no time for private thoughts. There was hardly enough time to counter her barbs, or the irritated looks she sent his way every so often. "I apologize. Like I said, you're a distraction." With that, he took her hands in his and swept across the floor with her as the band began playing a fast song.

He had expected to catch her off guard, but she easily kept pace with him, moving expertly in time with the music. He thought he detected the smallest hint of a smile on her face as they danced, but he knew that the smile had not been directed at him, if he had indeed seen things right. If she was smiling, it was simply because of the enjoyment that the act of dancing brought her.

The song they had been dancing to ended, but she made no move to stop dancing when the band switched to a waltz. He smiled to himself over her shoulder as they transitioned easily into the new song. Things were going well for the time being. After a minute, he even dared to slip an arm around her waist and pull her closer to him. She immediately stopped dancing to freeze him with a look. "I want to sit down. People are starting to stare at us," she stated primly. She didn't wait for a reply from him. Instead, she slipped out of his arms and walked back to their table alone.

"You should have let them stare." He caught up with her and pulled her chair out for her when they reached the table, not allowing her prickly demeanor to cause him to forget his manners. She accepted his gesture with her usual indifference, sitting and carefully arranging the skirt of her dress around her.

He found that he was unable to tell anything about what she was thinking throughout the rest of the night. The conversation between them as they dined was pleasant enough, however, he was unnerved by the fact that he couldn't read her emotions at all. Yes, things _seemed_ to be going smoothly enough, but he had no idea if she thought so.

"Will you tell me about your children?" he prompted after a pause between them.

A look of protectiveness suddenly slammed over her features. "How did you know I have children?"

He shrugged easily. "You're not exactly out of the public eye, Miranda. I knew who you were before we met for the first time. I think a mutual friend of ours told me that you have children."

"I see. Well, they were right. I have twin girls, Cassidy and Caroline. They're eleven, and they go to a private school in Manhattan. I really don't care to say much else about them because, as you might have gathered from my reaction to your question, I'm very protective of them. I don't want to complicate their lives by exposing them to the media just because I happen to be a public figure."

"That's understandable," he nodded, "and even admirable, considering some of the young celebrities in the world today who have become famous for doing absolutely nothing, and the mess the attention has made of their lives in such a short time."

She didn't physically smile, but something about the look in her eyes seemed friendlier. "I agree. That's another reason why I choose to keep my daughters out of the spotlight. I don't want to see them ruined by all of that." She seemed to check herself then, perhaps thinking that she was saying too much to a man she had no interest in dating in the first place, and looked at him. "So, do you have any children?"

"I do. One daughter. Her name is Amanda. She's a junior at Princeton. A Political Science major."

"Oh. Following in the footsteps of her mother?" Her face paled slightly once she realized what she had said, but he didn't notice.

"You know about Anne?" he inquired, his expression suddenly becoming as unreadable as hers had been minutes earlier at the mention of his deceased wife's name.

"I didn't mean to-"

"It's alright. I don't mind talking about her. She lived a full life, even though it was short. And you're right. I think part of the reason why Amanda is interested in politics is because of the time her mother spent serving as a representative. Perhaps you could tell me about your job."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm curious to know if the rumors I've heard about your work ethic are true. Was it really your devotion to your career that caused your last divorce?"

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "You're being spiteful. I tried to apologize for brining up a subject that is apparently sensitive to you, but all you want to do is turn the tables on me. It was a ridiculous notion for us to go out together in the first place. I hope that you'll at least leave me alone, now that I did go out with you, as you wanted. Goodbye, Jonathan." She stood abruptly and grabbed her things, the rustle of her designer dress practically the only sound to be heard as she left the restaurant. Anyone who hadn't been staring at them before was most certainly staring then.

He had done it; the one thing he knew he couldn't do. He had let her get to him, and in turn, he had said things that he immediately regretted; things that made her loose what little interest she had seemed to have in him. He followed her, unaware of the other people in the room who were openly watching him. He didn't catch up to her before he made his way downstairs, but he spotted her standing in the shadows once he stepped outside.

"I apologize. You were right." His voice behind her didn't startle her, but she turned slightly at the sound of it.

"I was right about what?"

"You dance very well."

She stared at him with the frigid, uncaring expression on her face; the expression that he suddenly, somehow knew he would become very familiar with before he was ever going to become close to her.

"And, obviously, your forte is excelling at the act of boring me." She turned on her heel and started to walk down the wide, marble staircase that lead from the restaurant to the sidewalk.

He followed suit. "What are you doing?" he inquired as he pursued her, weaving in and out among groups of people who were entering or leaving the restaurant to keep pace with her.

"What do you think? I'm leaving," she snapped icily, without turning around to look at him.

He caught her arm, and spun her to face him. "How? You don't have a car here to pick you up. What are you going to do? Hail a taxi?"

"I would if it meant I could get away from you. Don't touch me."

He ignored her request. "I could take you home."

"I would rather walk all of the way home alone than have to be in your company for a minute longer. Let go of me." She went to tug her arm out of his grasp and step away from him at the same time he released her arm, the momentum of their simultaneous actions throwing her off balance and nearly casing her to fall down the stairs.

Fortunately for her, he reacted quickly. He caught her arm again, steadied her, and guided her to the side of the staircase. "Are you alright?" He had released his protective grip on her upper arm, but his hand had traveled to rest lightly on her shoulder.

"I'm fine," she stated, but avoided his eyes. "If you had only left me alone when I wanted-"

"Miranda, I'm sorry." He could feel her pulse racing slightly, evidently from the scare she had just experienced, and quickly removed his hand when he realized that he was still touching her.

She would have brushed him off again, stepped around him to walk down the rest of the stairs and find a way home, only his tone sounded surprisingly sincere.

"I certainly didn't mean for you to be put in danger like that, and I apologize for my behavior earlier. I was out of line. Would you please allow me to call my driver, so he can pick us up and take you back to your home?"

"No." Her heels quietly began to crunch through the snow on the stairs as she stepped away.

"Well, please know that I am truly sorry. I guess you aren't able to understand how I felt when you brought up Anne since you've apparently never lost anyone you cared deeply about."

The crunching halted abruptly. After a second she spoke, her voice sounding just slightly strained. "Maybe that is it. Then again, you could be completely wrong. You have no idea what makes me feel the way I do about anything."

"I never pretended that I did. However, I would like to learn."

She pursed her lips and ignored his comment, but went to stand next to him. "Then I suppose you should call your driver."

He wasn't able to conceal his shock. "I thought you didn't want to-"

"I don't particularly want you to take me home, but I'm very cold, and it seems that sometimes the only way to get past your bothersome persistence is to go along with what you want."

Smirking, he took out his phone to call his driver. When he was finished, he looked back over to her. She was staring into the distance with a reflective look in her eyes. "I admit I am persistent, but I have a feeling that you could be just as stubborn about refusing me, if you wished to," he interjected, breaking through her thoughts.

"And I have a feeling you read too much into things," she deadpanned. "I just want a quick, comfortable way home."

"Well, that's understandable too."

There was silence between them until his car came, and it continued for part of the ride back to her home. Finally, it was broken by her voice, so quiet that he wasn't even sure he had heard her, even though they were sitting close together in the back seat of the car. "You were wrong."

"I was wrong?"

She nodded in affirmation, looking at him with a smug expression on her face.

"About what?"

"When you made the assumption that I have never lost anyone important to me. I have."

"Oh. Well, I apologize; for assuming that it hadn't happened to you, and for your actual loss."

"Thank you." There was a pause. She raised an eyebrow. "You're not going to ask for the details?" She settled back against her plush, leather seat, awaiting his answer.

"Would you tell me if I did?"

"No," came her curt reply.

"Then I won't ask you," he concluded simply.

"What happened to the overbearing, persistent part of your personality that I so easily detected earlier?" she inquired, with a tone in her voice that he dared to label as . . . teasing.

"I pick my battles," he shrugged. The key to getting along with her, he decided, was to remain unaffected by and unconcerned with anything she said or did. He had a feeling that it confused her because she was so used to getting strong reactions from people, whether it was fear from someone who worked under her or admiration from outsiders who worshiped her work with _Runway._

"I see," she nodded.

Silence ensued again until they reached her townhouse. He was able to get out and walk around the car

in time to walk with her up the stairs to the door, and liked to think that she had waited for him to do that, though it was more likely that it just happened to take extra time for her to get out of the vehicle because she had to slip into her fur coat and pick up her purse from the floorboard.

He made no attempt to kiss her or touch her in any way as they stood in front of the door, which she would not have allowed him to do anyway. "Thank you for agreeing to go out with me tonight. I enjoyed myself, and I hope that you enjoyed yourself too, despite my "persistence". You know, you're not like what I imagined, what other people said. I can tell that there's much more to you than that. Goodnight Miranda."

With that, he turned to go back to his car, leaving her staring after him with wide eyes. Finally, she gathered herself and started to go inside her house, annoyed. What did he mean by that? How could he pretend to understand her so well when they hardly knew one another?

"Miranda?"

She slowly looked over her shoulder at the sound of his voice, her hand still resting on the doorknob. "What?"

He was standing beside his car, looking up at her imploringly. "Can I see you again?"

The imperious stare came again, for what he knew had to be the hundredth time that night. But then her eyes darted away from his, as if she were thinking about something. Then, taking him completely by surprise, a sly smile flitted across her lips. Whether it was mocking or sincere, he did not know, but he was certain of what happened next. Before she slipped inside the house and closed the door behind her, she nodded briefly.

**Part II- Getting To Know You**

She finished clasping the platinum bracelet around her wrist and stepped back to survey her appearance in the full length mirror. She supposed she looked alight. The soft cobalt color of the dress she wore brought out her eyes; the pieces of jewelry she had selected complimented her wardrobe perfectly as they gleamed from her ears, neck, and wrists; her hair was styled immaculately, and her makeup had been professionally done earlier that evening.

Miranda's lips curled up into a sly smile as she continued to survey her appearance. Yes, she looked better than alright, and she was hoping that Jonathan would take notice of that when he arrived shortly to pick her up. They had plans to go out to dinner and then to a Broadway show. Of course, she quickly reminded herself, it really didn't matter if he took notice of her appearance or not. She still felt sure that nothing would come of their relationship, though they had been seeing each other steadily for over a month ever since their first date.

Jonathan was a companion to her; someone interesting to talk to, or someone witty enough to banter with her and match her barbs with his own, depending on what kind of mood she happened to be in, nothing more. His presence in her life also served as an escape from the loneliness she had faced after her last divorce. It was as simple as that. Their relationship would run its course and eventually one of them would realize that it had and end it.

However, on that particular night, Miranda had to admit- to herself at least- that she was grateful the time for that hadn't come yet. She was looking forward to her date with Jonathan; not so much to the date itself, but to the distraction that it would provide. She had been able to navigate through the day so far without any difficulties. She had made sure that her time at work was booked full of meetings and appointments so that there had been no chance for her mind to wonder to other things. But it was harder at night, when she was at home and alone in her room, so that was why she had been quick to agree to go out with Jonathan. She knew that as long as she was with him, her focus would be on the present, rather than the past.

"Mother, Mr. Anderson is here." Cassidy was knocking on her door then. It was time to go. The hours would pass quickly when she was out with Jonathan. The night would be almost over by the time she arrived home later. After that, she would somehow make it through the rest of the night until she eventually fell asleep. Once the morning came, everything would be better. The feelings that had threatened to overwhelm her all day would subside, along with the memories that had been haunting her and bringing about those feelings in the first place.

"Thank you, darling. Tell him I'll be downstairs in a minute," Miranda replied. She slid her feet into a new pair of Louboutin heels. Then she went to retrieve her quilted Chanel bag from her dresser. Her eyes wondered to another object sitting on the dresser when she reached for the bag, causing her to freeze in mid gesture. Her face was emotionless, but she swallowed once, hard.

Her hand inched forward until it was so close that it was almost touching the object that seemed to be causing her distress- a small jewelry box, but she shook her head to herself, snatching up the bag instead. She shrugged into a black sable coat, sighing inwardly as the soft, cool material settled against her skin. Then she quickly made her way downstairs, wishing she could leave the things lingering on the edge of her consciousness behind her as easily as she had the little box on her dresser.

"You look beautiful, mother," Caroline said as Miranda descended the stairs.

Both girls loved seeing their mother all dressed up. They were always in awe of her when she was decked out in her finery; eager to admire the way the incredible clothing fit her as if it had been made just for her, which in many cases it had been. More than that, though, they were captivated by the poise and presence their mother possessed, which always seemed to be enhanced when she was dressed in something especially beautiful or luxurious, and which emanated from her then.

Caroline had even started to demonstrate a recent interest in fashion herself. Her mother had realized this, so sometimes she would allow Caroline to look at the expansive wardrobe inside of her walk-in closet while she talked to the girl about different designers and explained why she had chosen certain pieces to compliment others.

"Yes, you look very beautiful," Cassidy confirmed.

Jonathan was standing with the twins in the foyer. He remained silent as the girls addressed their mother, but the look on his face echoed their sentiments. However, Miranda was focused on her daughters and paid him no heed as he stared at her. She was beautiful. Denying that to himself would have been ridiculous, as well as a complete lie.

She was not beautiful in the traditional sense. Her features were too sharp, too unique; the color of her hair and the shade of her skin too deviant from the textbook definition for her to be considered beautiful in that respect. But she was beautiful; beautiful because of the extreme elegance that she always seemed to possess, beautiful because of the individuality of her appearance, beautiful because of the mysterious quality she had about her that allowed her to draw in anyone she wished to, whether it be for better or for worse.

"Thank you," Miranda replied as she walked over to her daughters. "Have fun at play practice tonight. I'll check in on you both when I get home later." She bent down to hug each girl goodbye, her hand resting on each of their shoulders in turn as she spoke to them intently. "Be nice to Madame Beaumont, please, Cassidy. I know you think rehearsal is going slowly, but she's just trying to make the play the best it can possibly be."

"Yes, mother," Cassidy agreed, but smiled slyly at her sister over her mother's shoulder as Miranda hugged her.

"Are you alright?" Miranda was startled by Caroline's whispered question during their hug. "You looked upset when I saw you walking down the hall to your room earlier."

Caroline had always been the more intuitive and sensitive of her daughters, so Miranda wasn't surprised that the girl had picked up on her feelings, despite her efforts to hide them from the twins. "I'm fine darling. I've just had a lot on my mind lately," Miranda murmured quietly to the girl.

Jonathan watched Miranda's interaction with her children with a smile. He had witnessed similar scenes previously when he had come to pick her up and take her out. He had been disarmed the first time he saw Miranda behave in such a way; smiling openly as she talked to the girls, bending down to their level so she could hug them, reaching out to play with a ponytail, speaking in tones that were much more compassionate than normal. Yet, after becoming more accustomed to the affection Miranda showed to her daughters, he found that seeing them like that gave him pleasure because it proved that he had been right all along. The tough exterior she was known for was merely a front to conceal a kinder, more vulnerable personality.

"Hello, Jonathan." She stood suddenly and greeted him, looking directly at him. The defensive look in her eyes had also become familiar. Though they had never discussed it, it was understood that she was taking a chance by revealing this different part of her life to him, and that he was never to bring up her relationship with her children, whether it was to her or anyone else. So he had never said anything to her about the changes he observed in her occasionally, certain that if he did, he would never be around her again to witness them.

In fact, he had never mentioned anything about his time with her to anyone, though there certainly had been enough people who were curious to know about it. He knew the reason why wasn't because he was afraid of her, which had to mean instead that his keeping quiet came from some semblance of respect for her. That presented a problem in itself. He desired neither to fear her, nor to become fond of her. The only thing he desired at that point was to finally convince her to spend the night with him, something he had not been able to do as of yet, despite his discovery of her softer side.

"Miranda." He kissed her cheek in greeting. The protective expression slowly disappeared from her face as they greeted each other. He liked to think that over time he would gradually be able to win her trust with his silence.

She finished saying her goodbyes to her daughters, and the girls went upstairs to find their nanny and get ready for play practice. Miranda looked around expectantly once she and Jonathan stepped outside. "Where is your car, Jonathan?" she questioned. Indeed, his car and driver were nowhere in sight. Even after she pointed out this fact, he did not seem troubled.

"I thought a change might be nice. I'll be driving you around myself tonight, in my other car, if you don't mind."

"I don't think that should be a problem," she answered, eager to get out of the cold and into whatever automobile he had brought along. She had never inquired about his finances, but she did know that he ran his own company, a well known and prosperous organization, so it was safe to assume that their transportation for the night would be at least as nice as the luxury sedan she had grown accustomed to. "Where is this car of yours?"

It turned out to be down a short flight of stairs, in the underground garage that she and several people living in neighboring townhouses shared.

"I'm afraid it might not be as comfortable as you're used to, but I thought it might be fun," he said gesturing to a black Ferrari. "If you have any objections, I can always call for the other car."

"I have none," Miranda replied. "I like sports cars. The Porsche beside it is mine."

"In that case, we should go. I've made us reservations at La Grenouille."

It would have irritated her that he had made reservations for a restaurant without asking her where she would like to go first, except for the fact that she was very fond of French food, and because of what he said next. "I hope that's alright with you," he continued when she did not respond. "Your assistant, Sarah, told me that it was one of your favorite restaurants. I didn't mention anything about it to you because I wanted it to be a surprise."

She relaxed slightly. She wondered why his simple gesture brought about a confusing mixture of emotions. "At least you spoke with my competent assistant. Unfortunately, my other one is incapable of even menial tasks most of time. She would have had no idea what La Grenouille was, let alone known that I enjoy going there," she stated, attempting to push aside her feelings. Why should she be so pleased that he had gone to the trouble of making reservations for a restaurant she liked? She doubted the gesture was sincere; instead she figured that it was ploy to get what he wanted from her. She knew what it was that he wanted, too. It was true that he had never openly attempted to get her to spend the night with him, but there had been insinuations; long kisses and lingering glances that told her without words that he certainly would not be opposed to it, if that was what she wanted.

He chuckled as he opened the door for her and she slid in. "Then I am glad I spoke with Sarah. I wouldn't want to be a disappointment to you."

"You're not a disappointment," came her quiet voice from inside the car.

He wanted to say something; to confirm that he had heard her right, to ask her to explain what she meant by the comment, but she continued facing forward rather than looking at him. He knew the conversation was over, so he closed the door and walked around to his side of the car.

There was no mention of what she had said on the way to the restaurant. A group of photographers spotted them as they made their way down the sidewalk to La Grenouille and crowded around them. She paused for several seconds to allow them to take pictures of her, even speaking briefly to several photographers who she recognized. The bright flashes and the noise of their voices did nothing to distract him; his eyes remained fixed on her. She posed for them, flashing the cameras a shy half-smile, making the task appear as effortless as one of the models in her magazine would.

Then, it was over as quickly as it had begun. She started to walk forward and the photographers obligingly moved out of her way. He guessed that their actions were inspired more by fright than by any form of reverence for her. Her head began to turn from side to side, and he realized that she was looking around for him, so he pushed through the crowd to get to her side.

"Oh. There you are." He was surprised at the hint of relief he heard in her voice when she noticed him. Then again, he had probably imagined it.

When he felt her hand gently come to rest on his arm, he was certain that his heart skipped a beat, simply as a result from the shock her action caused. He was careful not to let her see his reaction. He didn't look at her because he had a strong suspicion that if he acknowledged it, her hand would not remain on his arm.

But her hand did continue to rest on his arm for the remainder of the walk to the restaurant. In fact, her grip on his arm tightened slightly as they made their way past a group of more aggressive, sleazier photographers. These photographers began to snap pictures of them both, unconcerned with the fact that neither Miranda nor Jonathan had even acknowledged their lenses. Unlike the more respectful ones, these photographers crowded close to them, forcing the couple to push past them in order to keep walking to their destination. He wondered if it would bother her if the pictures of them on the town together were published. He glanced sideways at her to try to judge her reaction. The smile had left her face by then, but she didn't seem angered by the photographers. She didn't like the media, but understood that she had to pretend she did because of her job. He remembered then that she had admitted as much to him several weeks before. So he did his best to help shield her from them until they reached the inside of the restaurant.

Encouraged by the events of the night, Jonathan asked the waiter something when Miranda excused herself to use the restroom during dinner. The man nodded in understanding, took the roll of money Jonathan offered him, and hurried off. The rest of their dinner went by quickly, and soon the valet was brining the Ferrari around for them.

They arrived at Broadway shortly after. As they neared the front doors of the theater, Miranda realized that he was holding something in his arms. He noticed her looking at the bouquet of flowers and held them out to her tentatively. "I found these behind the seat of my car," he shrugged casually. "I'm not much of a flower person. Would you like them?" The bouquet had somehow been retrieved by a member of the restaurant's staff and then was given to the valet to put in the car when he brought it around. Jonathan himself was not exactly sure how they had managed to pull it off, but was grateful that they had because of the way her eyes lit up when he offered her the bouquet.

"Yes," she nodded, arching an eyebrow in suspicion. "I assume Sarah told you that red roses are my favorite flowers."

To be honest, he hadn't thought to ask her that. "No. Actually, I didn't know that. It was a lucky guess."

"Oh. Well, they were a good choice. They're beautiful," she spoke as she reached out for the flowers.

"Not as beautiful as you," he blurted without thinking.

Her hand quickly dropped, and she stepped backwards while inhaling sharply.

"Miranda?" He searched her face for an explanation. That obviously wasn't the most original statement in the world, and perhaps she thought it was too forward. He could understand that, and hadn't intended to say it out loud in the first place. It warranted a sarcastic comment from her, or a chilly look, but he received neither, which turned out to be much more frightening. Instead, she silently turned away from him. "Miranda," he tried again, "I'm sorry. That was a stupid thing to say."

"I want to go," she said tonelessly, looking up at him long enough for him to see something in her eyes he had never seen before. This wasn't loathing, or annoyance, or amusement, or any of the other expressions had become familiar with. This was darkness, pain, sadness.

"If it's what you want, I'll take you home, but will you please tell me what's wrong? My statement was highly cliché, but . . ." _But I don't see why it is causing you to be on the verge of tears_ he couldn't help thinking.

"I can't. You wouldn't understand. I have to go now." She turned away from him and ran down the stairs to hail a taxi, disappearing inside of it without hesitation, leaving him to wonder what he had done as he stood alone at the top of the stairs, still holding the flowers.

Back home, she quietly slipped inside Cassidy's bedroom and found both of her daughters asleep in Cassidy's bed. The twins had separate bedrooms but liked to sit together at night and talk before they went to bed, and evidently Caroline had fallen asleep before making it back to her own room. Miranda smiled at the sight of the girls resting peacefully. She moved forward to pick up Cassidy's stuffed bear from where it had fallen on the floor, placed it back on the bed beside the girl, and kissed each girl lightly on the forehead before she left the room.

The smile on Miranda's face faded fast once she left her daughters and walked down the hall to her own room. She was glad they were already asleep, or else they might have questions for her. They would have wondered why she returned home early, or wanted to know why she locked herself in her room as soon as she closed the door behind herself. They wouldn't understand why she was in the condition she was in; why she immediately discarded her dress and shoes, leaving them laying in a pile of silk and stiletto heels on the floor, and donned a rather plain looking nightgown and robe instead; why she washed away salty tears along with her makeup over the bathroom sink.

She took a bottle from the back of the top shelf of the cabinet in her bathroom when she finished washing her face. She carried the bottle back into the bedroom. She removed her jewelry, letting it clatter carelessly onto her dresser, and went to reaffirm that the door was locked. Finally, she settled down on her bed and spun the cap to open the bottle. She stared inside, considering its contents. The bottle was over halfway full; she didn't rely on what was inside on a regular basis. Then again, during certain times, she counted on the pills inside simply to help her through the day.

She was strong. That was what they said of her. Sometimes, they even went further than that; asserting that she was unfeeling, insinuating that she was unable to experience pain herself and that she was unconcerned with the fact that she sometimes inflicted pain on others. In many respects it was true. There was no other way she would have made it as far in life as she had if she had not been strong. Had she not been strong, she would not have survived painful events in her past.

But she knew that she was not strong. They were wrong. Strong people did not feel pain. She was not strong, and that was why she was feeling pain then, pain that should have faded away years before. She was not strong because she was too scared to let herself get close to anyone, even the people who were supposed to love her the most, like her children or any one of her previous husbands.

Her manicured fingers began to carefully count out the pills. She wouldn't take many. Just enough to help her fall mercifully into a deep, dreamless sleep. Because there were many days when she was happier than she was at that moment. Because she did have many things to live for. Even though her relationship with her daughters was far from perfect, she loved them with her entire being. Even though her employees were frightened of her, they also respected her, and recognized that she was brilliant at her job. Even though she presently spent her nights alone, she knew that she would probably get married again eventually. Maybe her next husband would be one who she could love with her whole heart, maybe she would finally find someone to replace the memory of-

A tear glided down her cheek. In a quick, neat, move she swallowed several pills, making a face at the bitter taste they left in her mouth. She returned to her bathroom for a glass of water and prepared to continue her routine with the aid of the drink. She placed her glass on the nightstand and sat down on the bed, starting to count out more pills to take. A sudden noise from downstairs startled her, causing her hand to open as she jumped and the pills to fall from it on to the blankets covering her bed.

It was the doorbell. She had a sinking suspicion that she knew who was at her door. She had no desire to answer it, but didn't want the ringing to wake her daughters, either. She scooped up the dropped pills and shoved them back in the bottle. After she made sure that the cap was on securely, she stashed the bottle in the nightstand's drawer. Then, she hesitantly made her way downstairs to the door.

As expected, when she peered through the window beside the door, she saw Jonathan standing outside. With a sigh, she flipped the locks and opened the door.

He couldn't help the expression on his face when he saw her. She looked very different from the way she normally did in her pale gold robe, with her face clear of makeup and her pedicured feet bare, but she still looked beautiful. He marveled at the fact that her skin was nearly flawless even without the aid of cosmetics.

"Are you coming in, or are you going to stand there staring at me for the rest of the night?" she asked, but her voice had none of its usual venom in it.

"You're standing in the doorway," he said pointedly.

"Well, I thought you might request to come in instead of simply waiting for me to let you in," she countered, but stepped aside to allow him to enter. Once again, he had the distinct impression that her heart was not in it; she was simply saying the things she normally would in attempt to hide what she was really thinking and feeling.

She turned to face him after closing the door. Something was wrong. She looked pale and as if she had been crying. Now that he was standing closer to her, he could see the same look in her eyes that he had seen earlier that night right before she left him.

"What are you doing here, Jonathan?"

He had been holding the bouquet of roses in his hand and held them out to her then. "You left these with me earlier, so I thought I'd bring them to you. I want you to have them. I bought them for you. Like I said before, I'm not a big fan of roses."

"Thank you." Her voice was soft and quiet as she reached forward to accept the flowers. She did not meet his eyes, or she would have seen the surprise on his face when she thanked him. She placed the bouquet on a nearby table and turned back to him. "Is there anything else, Jonathan?" She asked, all traces of the brief flicker of gentleness gone from her voice and her countenance.

"Yes. Of course there is. I wanted to apologize to you. I don't know why what I said seemed to hurt you, but I'm sorry that it did. The statement has admittedly been overused, but I have a feeling that there must have been something more that caused you to become upset. Whatever the reason, I regret making you feel that way."

"It wasn't your fault," she responded.

He was beginning to wonder if there was a way he could possibly prepare for the surprises around every turn that a relationship with her seemed to entail. He was beginning to feel like all he did when he was around her was stand gaping.

"I mean," she continued, "that I know you didn't intend to do anything to upset me. You had no idea your words would affect me like that. And, really, the words themselves, as trite as they are, had nothing to do with my reaction." She gestured in the direction of the living room. "Come with me. I don't want our talking to wake the girls."

He did as she asked and when they reached the living room she sat down on the couch. He lingered uncertainly by the coffee table, not knowing where to sit himself. She sighed in impatience. "Sit down. You're making me nervous." So he sat down on the couch, too. They both remained silent as they waited for the other to speak. Finally, she titled her head slightly to the side and looked at him questioningly. "It seems to me," she spoke bitingly, "that you've lost the persistence you had when we first met. Go ahead. Ask me. I can see on your face that you want to know why I reacted the way I did."

The tone of her voice made him very uncertain as to whether he really wanted to hear her answer. "Tell me, Miranda, why my words caused you distress," he murmured with a mixture of dread and anticipation.

She looked away for a minute, and then she began to speak carefully. "Someone -a man I knew- once said those exact words to me, after presenting with me a bouquet of flowers. The only difference in the situation was that he gave me," her lips and nose twitched in distaste, "freesias. I hate freesias."

"Oh. So you're saying that he should have given you something else instead. Roses, perhaps?"

She smirked, but shook her head. "I liked freesias back then."

"You cared for him and he cared for you?"

"Yes," she answered quickly, her eyes bright.

"But now you hate freesias. And when I unintentionally recreated the memory for you, it caused you pain."

"Yes."

"You're telling me that he handed you a line like that and then went on to break your heart?"

She chucked slightly at his mock disbelief, but the sound seemed hollow, forced. "Not in the way you mean. He left me, yes. But not by his own fault. There was a chance accident one morning. He died on this day a little more than twenty years ago."

Everything began to fall in place then. He recalled her telling him on their first date that she too had lost someone whom she cared deeply about. He remembered overhearing Cassidy's hushed whisper to her sister when they were standing in the foyer with him, asking why their mother was going out when she had not seemed herself earlier that afternoon; the long, faraway glances into space he had observed her make several times during their dinner. It probably even explained the uncharacteristic two glasses of wine he had watched her drink at the restaurant.

What had she done? She hadn't meant to tell him that. She had been a fool to do it, because he would undoubtedly use it to his advantage. It was just that it had been so easy to let everything tumble out once she had started talking about it.

"Miranda, I'm sorry."

God help her; he looked so sincere when he said that. The tenderness in his expression, combined with the frustrating knowledge that she had just told him such personal information, caused her to do the last thing she wanted to do. She began to cry.

Seeing her eyes fill with tears caused him to feel a sudden rush of compassion for her. Without considering the consequences, he took her in his arms and allowed her to rest her head against his shoulder as she struggled to suppress her tears. She did not attempt to escape his embrace. Instead, she remained willingly in his arms. She knew that she was making another mistake by allowing such a thing to happen, but the feeling of his hand rubbing her back was quite soothing, the warmth of his arms around her comforting.

When she was calmer, she moved out of his arms, though she continued to sit beside him. They sat like that wordlessly for a minute, with him staring openly at her. There was a different kind of beauty about her that night. This was a softer, more vulnerable appearance that he knew belonged with the hidden side of her personality that he caught glimpses of from time to time. He reached forward to trace the outline of her cheeks and chin. "I meant what I said earlier. You are beautiful," he told her.

She shivered slightly- at his touch, his words, or both- but made no protest. Then, with a sudden burst of motion, she surprised him yet again; that time more than she ever had before. She kissed him. She took his face in her hands and kissed him in a way that was different from any kiss they had previously shared.

He did not allow the intensity or the neediness in her kiss to throw him off guard. He returned her kiss with a passionate one of his own, and gently pulled her in his arms again. Their kisses continued this way for several minutes, only punctuated by brief pauses as they caught their breath. During one of these breaks, he noticed that her robe had fallen open a bit, revealing the creamy skin of her neck and shoulders, obscured only by the thin straps of her nightgown. This tempted him to transfer his kisses to the soft, porcelain skin of her neck. She did not object to this action, but tilted her head back instead to allow him easier access to the new object of mouth's interest. While she seemed very calm as she sat perfectly still in his arms, he was amused to note that he could feel her pulse racing when he began to kiss her neck.

She liked the feeling of his strong hands on her back and the way they held her close. There was something she had been about to say to him, something about going to her bedroom, but it was forgotten when he abruptly ceased kissing and touching her and sat up. She looked at him in confusion, reached out to pull him back so she could kiss him again, but he caught her wrists in his hands. "I should go," he said without looking at her, his voice deep and regretful.

Her blue eyes peered up suspiciously at him. "What's wrong? Isn't this what you wanted?" She demanded snidely. He noted, to his dismay, that her demeanor had turned cold again. She pulled her arms from his grasp and they crossed over her chest as she glared at him.

"Yes, but not like this. Not after all that's happened tonight." Not when she seemed so emotional and vulnerable. Not when she still seemed to be mourning the loss of a past love. Not when she had been drinking at dinner. "I feel that if I were to stay, I would be taking advantage of you. I don't want to feel that way, and I don't want you to feel that way, either. Goodnight, Miranda."

Her eyes followed his retreating from as he left the room, and she remained still after the front door closed. Finally, she blinked several times, still looking in the direction of the doorway, and smiled softly.

Meanwhile, sitting in his car, he leaned back against the seat and buried his face in his hands. He could sill taste her kisses, and the scent of her perfume lingered on his senses. What had he done? Why had he left? Why had he based his decision on what was best for her, rather than what was best for himself, when it wasn't in his plans to care for her? The answer was not a welcome one, but he knew it was the only one that was plausible. The realization had just dawned on him, and yet it was already too late to change anything.

**Part III- Realization**

Something had to change, and it had to change that night. He became certain of that the minute he saw her walking down the stairs from her townhouse to his car. Seeing her face, thinking of what was to come, made it obvious to him that he would not be able to go through it again. He could not pretend any longer. Yet, when he considered what he might say to her, how he might try to explain the thoughts enveloping him, he was left at a loss. He was no better at anticipating her feelings than he had been when they first met, and was understandably fearful of what her reaction to what he had to say might be.

Things between them had been the same way for over two months, he realized as the driver opened the door for her. But things were going to be different that night. Normally, he would pick her up and take her out to dinner, or to some other event that they deemed worthy of their time. Then, as long as her daughters were away from home or had their nanny to stay with them for the night, she would go with him back to his house.

They weren't going out that night, though. It was already quite late; the lights from the street and the interior of the car illuminated her form against the darkening sky as she sat down. She was dressed more casually than usual- if a black pencil skirt, matching blazer, and an off-white blouse with pumps could be considered casual - the way that she had learned he preferred after he subtly told her as much one night. It was warm in the car, so she slipped out of her blazer, revealing the scrumptious skin of her neck and shoulders that he had become found of, exposed tastefully by the neckline of her blouse. The only hindrance to his view of her lovely, porcelain skin was the scarf that was tied loosely around her neck.

He could easily recall the first time it had happened, shortly after the night he had chosen to walk out on her when they had come close to sleeping together. He had taken her home, as usual, and after he kissed her goodbye at her door, she had glanced at him with a long, inquisitive look in her eyes. Then she had asked him bluntly if he wanted to come in, or if he was going to turn down her offer of a night together for the second time. There had been, of course, no chance of him leaving her alone on that night, for several reasons; one of which being the fact that she had been her usual self throughout dinner, and the other one being the sudden trace of desire he saw flicker briefly in her eyes as she stared at him.

So, he had accepted her offer and sent his driver off alone. He followed her up the winding stairs of her townhouse to the third floor. He remembered being acutely aware of his pounding heart as he walked up the stairs behind her, wondering if she could hear it too because it seemed to be the only noise to be heard in her home; even their footsteps were made inaudible by the thick carpet covering the stairs.

He had followed her to a door at the end of the hall. She motioned for him to enter the room, then closed and locked the door behind them. She dimmed the lights, but not so much that he couldn't see the ornate surroundings of her spacious room, or her expectant stare when she turned to face him. He would have stepped forward to kiss her, but he found himself suddenly frozen in place upon meeting her eyes; though she appeared perfectly calm and collected otherwise, her eyes were absolutely burning with desire then. Obviously too impatient to wait for him, she had started to unbutton her blouse slowly, her eyes still on him as she watched for his reaction.

He had finally broken out of his trance then. He had stepped forward, gently pulling her hands away from her clothing so he could finish undressing her himself. Upon doing this, he'd quickly realized that the beauty of the parts of her body he had seen before paled in comparison to the parts that he had not previously been acquainted with. She easily undressed him while he contemplated that new discovery. When they had made their way over to her bed, he found, once again, that he was surprised by her. Her slender body was soft and unexpectedly warm, not at all what one would expect after witnessing her distant demeanor. Then again, he understood better than most that there was more than one side to her personality, so perhaps he shouldn't have been so surprised.

He had been concerned at first that she would notice the fact that he had been enthralled by her the minute she had entered his arms, but she also seemed to be very content during the time they spent in bed that night. Everything had been wonderful, or so he had thought, and believed that she had thought, too, until he drowsily kissed her for the last time. Apparently also tired, she had left his arms and went to lay on her side of the bed with her back to him, where she remained for the rest of the night, a practice that she continued each night they spent together after that.

She and her daughters were gone before he woke up the next morning. She was always gone by the time he woke up, whether he stayed with her, or she with him. He hadn't known what to make of that at first. He knew that it was probably just because she had to get to work, or that she didn't want her daughters to know that she had not gone back home the night before. He hoped that it might also mean that she was afraid to face him because she secretly felt the same emotions that had been with him for months. He knew that it was more likely that it was just her way of keeping their relationship uncomplicated, void of any real feelings; the way he had thought he wanted it to be when it first started, and the way he feared that she wanted things between them to remain.

He had lain awake that night, long after her breathing had become deep and regular, watching her with rapt curiosity as she slept. He had been amazed at the transformation that had come over her, and still was each time he watched her while she was sleeping. She appeared calm, relaxed, and even defenseless. He had known from that first time, almost subconsciously, that nights like those were the only times he would ever witness her in such a state. Even on the night when she had been so affected by memories of her past, she had still managed to maintain a cool dignity about herself that automatically prevented her from appearing weak.

He had wished to hold her in his arms again, as he lay there watching her, but knew that it was out of the question. Instead, he had chosen to content himself with smoothing a few stray locks of hair away from her face, doing this very gently because he couldn't risk waking her; if she were to stir and see the expression on his face, she would immediately know the feelings he had been trying so desperately to conceal. The irony of the situation was ridiculous, he had decided, as he laid down as near to her as he dared, and attempted to go to sleep himself. For months, his only goal had been to get her into his bed. Instead, he had wound up in her bed on their first night together, and he had the feeling that if either one of them was going to experience any heartache as a result of their relationship, it would be him, rather than her.

He was brought back to the present when she turned to him and raised an eyebrow with that now familiar, expectant look in her eyes, her gaze clearly willing him to kiss her. She had a right to want that from him; it had been almost two weeks since they'd last had the chance to see one another. She had been in Paris for six days the week before, and he had left for a business trip to Japan right before she returned to New York. His flight had gotten in earlier that evening. He had called her to tell her that he was back and discuss when they could meet again, and he had been surprised at what she'd said: _Tonight. I'd like to see you tonight_. Evidently, she had missed at least some aspect of the time they spent together. He'd hated himself for the rush of hope that came along with that thought, but had been unable to stop it.

The light inside the vehicle went out then, as the car began to glide down the street, but he didn't allow that circumstance to get in his way. He moved across the leather seat of the car so that he was sitting beside her. He was able to make out her figure against the shifting city lights, and reached forward to touch her chin and guide her mouth to his. She seemed to hesitate at first when he touched her, perhaps because she hadn't seen him move towards her in the darkness, but her body relaxed against his after a minute as she returned his kiss. He gratefully took in the scent of the perfume that had become familiar to him over the last few months, the scent that had been absent from his senses for far too long, as far as he was concerned. The delicate, silk material of her blouse felt good underneath his fingertips.

"You've missed me," she accused once they separated.

"You're conceited," he smirked in reply to her tone and leaned down to kiss her again.

"Maybe," she murmured when their embrace ended, "but I'm also right."

Of course she was right. "What about you? Did you miss me?" He dared to ask.

"Maybe," she repeated, noncommittally, but her arms were still wrapped around his neck. At least she hadn't completely rejected the idea. He hoped for the best.

Different. Things were going to be different, he reminded himself as the car continued on its way. But her fingers were running through his hair then, and she was the one who kissed him that time. He thought that he felt one of her hands tremble slightly once they came to rest on his shoulders, as he wrapped her in his arms and kissed her back in a way that did its best to ensure that she would definitely miss him the next time, but he decided that he must have imagined things.

Several minutes later they arrived at his penthouse. They had agreed to go directly there that night. She strode confidently in ahead of him once he had opened the door, tossing her purse and blazer on a chair in the living room. Despite his jet lag, the fact that he hadn't eaten a decent meal in days, and the unwelcome thought of the work that would be waiting for him at his office when he returned to it, he found that he was glad to have her there with him. He desired at that moment, more than anything else, to spend the night with her, remembering just what it was about her that made it impossible for him to get her out of his mind. Everything else could wait until later.

She spun around to face him, and her eyes raked unabashedly over his body. She was standing very still, but he knew by then that her composure was only a well-disguised front to conceal whatever emotions she might be hiding inside. He only wished that there was a way he could know what she was feeling. Because while it was obvious that she had come to trust him somewhat over the past few months, she had come nowhere near to opening her heart to him. He wondered then if she ever would. However, his thoughts quickly changed course when he looked at her. The smoldering look in her eyes told him that she wanted to loose herself in his arms again, at least as much as she would allow herself to. Yes, everything else could most certainly wait.

She stepped out of her heels and began to move towards him with a predatory grace. He had almost forgotten that she was considerably shorter than him without the aid of her high heels. But she was standing close to him, leisurely unwinding the Hermès scarf from around her neck while she gazed up at him, her eyes fixed on his. When the scarf was free, she released it from her hand, letting it flutter on to the couch, and reached out to tug on his arm, attempting to lead him to his bedroom. He would have willingly followed her, except he knew that, truthfully, there was one thing that couldn't wait. As much as he wanted to take her to his room and make love to her, he knew that he couldn't allow things to continue the way they had been going.

"Wait. I need to talk to you."

She became very still at his rejection. He could see in her eyes that she understood whatever he had to say would be important. "Alright." She allowed him to place a hand on the small of her back and guide her over to the couch, where they sat down next to one another.

He tried to think of how he would begin to explain to her how he was feeling. He had thought over what he would say in advance, gone over every imaginable situation in his mind, but he found himself at a loss for words then. Every possibility that came to him suddenly seemed not enough, or too much.

"What is it, Jonathan?" She questioned, thankfully in a way that was not demanding or impatient, only curious.

He had to say something, or else she would become bored with the situation. But what could he say? He was afraid that if he explained the full extent of his feelings, she would think him too emotional and sentimental. Then again, if he was not passionate enough in his admission of his love for her, she would not believe that he was sincere.

Well, he would just have to come out with it. There was no better way he could think of to relate what he had to say to her. She would only get annoyed if he didn't get to the point quickly, anyway. He took a long breath and began to speak carefully. "I hope it hasn't escaped your notice that I've come to care for you over the last few months, Miranda."

If she was surprised by his words, she didn't show it. She shrugged slightly and gestured to her things that were spread out around the room, from the scarf draped over the arm of the couch to the shoes laying near the entrance to the hallway. "I assumed you did. I feel the same way. Why else would we be together like this?"

"I don't know. I just know that I didn't expect this. To be truthful, I never expected you to agree to see me again after we went out for the first time."

"I have been known to do unexpected things," she replied nonchalantly.

"Do you realize that we've been seeing one another for four months now?"

"I knew it was something along those lines," she answered evenly, smoothly.

"Well, that's how long it's been, and I've enjoyed the time that we've spent together, but I think there is something that needs to change."

"And what would that be?" She inquired, viewing him with suspicion.

"I need to be honest about the full extent of my feelings for you. Because I've told you that I cared for you, and that is true-I do care for you- but that's not all. I can't stand to think of us spending another night together with you thinking that you are not special to me, that I'm just using you until someone better comes along. The truth is that I'm in love with you, Miranda."

He had anticipated a vast number of reactions from her when he had been thinking about what he would say to her, but the one he received was one that he had never imagined. She began to laugh. It wasn't a nasty kind of laugh, just the kind she would have made had someone said something truly amusing to her, but his heart sank nonetheless. Her laugh obviously meant that she hadn't taken his words seriously, and hinted that his feelings were not reciprocated.

"And how many other women have you given that same speech to, Jonathan?" She questioned in a deeply sardonic voice.

"Other women?" He had no idea what she was talking about. She was the only woman that he'd been involved with for months.

A dangerous look came over her eyes. "Don't treat me like a fool. I know that you were seeing another woman- maybe more than one- when we first met. Didn't you tell them those things, too? What's the point? You have your own money; you don't need mine. I've already slept with you. What else do you want from me?"

The despairing look on his face brought a halt to her harsh words. "Miranda, I haven't seen anyone expect for you since our first date. I thought you knew that. Of course I dated other women before we met, but most of them were only flirtations that never resulted in anything; certainly nothing as serious as what's been going on between us." It was the truth. He had purposely broken off contact with all of his former acquaintances when he'd first set his sights on her, hoping that it would be easier for him to catch her interest if it was clear that he was available. Later, he had become grateful for his decision for another reason when he'd come to the realization that she was the only woman he wished to be spending time with.

"But that would mean you had another reason for saying the things you did, and it can't be because you love me," she said wearily in reply.

"I'm afraid it doesn't work that way," he murmured with a sad smile. "I don't think feelings like mine can

come and go at a whim, but please, do tell me why you don't think I could love you."

"You can't love me," she repeated. "You don't _want_ to love me. Because I'm not loveable," she explained as if she were stating one of the simplest facts known to man, the conviction in her voice making him hurt for her. "Haven't you heard how many times I've been married and divorced? Not to mention the man I loved who died. I don't have a good track record with relationships, to say the least. And I know you've seen how much my career means to me. It's hard enough for us to find time to see each other now. If things became more serious between us, it would only get worse. We haven't even known each other for very long. You don't understand me well enough to be in love with me. You'd get frustrated with me after awhile, just like my former husbands did, and go back to those other women. I think the feelings you claim to have for me might have something to do with you wanting to replace your wife's memory."

She was startled into silence when he took her hands in his in a firm but gentle grip. "Miranda, Anne died three years ago, after a long history with cancer. I knew months before she passed that the chances of her living for much longer were slim. I've come to terms with her death; this has nothing to do me still mourning her. As for the women I've seen since she died, like I said, I haven't seen any of them since before we went out for the first time. I was so occupied with trying to convince you to give me the time of day that I didn't have an opportunity to even think about seeing anyone else," he added.

This elicited a slight upturn of the corners of her lips, despite her best efforts to hide it, giving him the courage to continue.

His voice grew gentler as he spoke again. "And, my darling, I do understand you. I understand that you're an incredibly intriguing, amazing woman. I understand that you're extremely devoted to your work. I respect that because my own job is very demanding. I understand that while you put your all into your work, you are also just as determined to be actively involved in every aspect of your daughters' lives because you love them just as much as you love _Runway._ You have two happy, well-adjusted girls as a result. I understand that you have your own interests and passions, things that the public would never think to attribute to you. I share your interest in some of those things. I understand that people often reflect the belief that you're cold and unfeeling, because that's what you've lead them to think, but I know that's not true. I see the woman you are underneath all of that, Miranda, and I've fallen in love with her. So, I'm here to tell you that you are loveable; I know that you are because I love you.

I also understand that you might not return my feelings. It hurts to think of that, yes, but it was hurting me even more to go on pretending. I took a risk when I decided to tell you how I felt tonight, but it was something that I had to do. I've known that I've felt this way about you for months now. I couldn't stand to go on hiding this from you. I'd rather not have you as a part of my life at all than have you in my life, but not have your heart, and not be able to tell you that you have mine."

He realized that she was staring at him with a look of intense concentration on her face, as if she were trying to read his thoughts. Their eyes met then, causing hers to widen slightly when she looked into his.

"Oh, God," she muttered, biting her lip, "you really are serious about what you said."

"Yes, I am."

Her hands remained clasped in his as she sat wordlessly beside him. She stared at him with her face blank for an incomprehensible amount of time. He desperately wanted to say something, anything, to make her stop looking at him like that. He had just poured out his heart to her, and received only one of her signature unreadable stares in return. Yet, he knew that he couldn't push her; he had to be patient until she decided to tell him what she herself was feeling.

She was the first one to break eye contact when she looked off into the distance. She still refused to give any hint as to what her thoughts were, either by her facial expression or her body language. He watched in dismay as she drew one of her hands away from his. It was over. She was going to leave him, maybe without even saying anything, and he would be alone again.

But her other hand stayed in his grasp, and she didn't move except to place her free hand over her mouth. He realized with amazement that her hand was trembling. "I . . . I can't do this. I can't talk about this right now," she suddenly stammered uncharacteristically.

"Then feel free to go. You've heard what I had to say, and you don't feel the same way about me that I feel about you. There's nothing more to keep you here," he stated flatly. As much as he tried to hide it, it was obvious that he was deeply upset by her reaction.

She exhaled shakily. "No. That's not it. It's not that I don't love you. It's just that I'm scared."

Every other thought disappeared for him beyond that of what she had just said: _It's not that I don't love you_. He blinked, thinking he must have misunderstood what she said. "What?"

"I'm scared," she said again, the lost expression that had suddenly appeared on her face making him want to hold her, comfort her. "Scared of the feelings I've been having. You make me feel comfortable, like I can be myself around you, without having to fear that you'll judge me for who I am. I haven't felt that way about a man since . . . well, I haven't felt that way for quite some time." She placed the hand she had removed earlier gently over his own hand. She still would not look him in the eye. "Anyway, you have nothing worry about. I return your feelings."

"Do you mean-"

"I love you too," she clarified, finally turning to look at him. Her voice was barely above a whisper, the gentleness and sincerity of her tone enough to knock him off of his feet, had he not already been sitting down. Even more incredible than her words was the look on her face when she said them. He gasped when he saw her smiling. She had never come close to smiling that way at him before, or at anyone else, as far as he knew, for that matter. Her beautiful, genuine smile made her blue eyes dance, and her fair skin glow with soft color. He was certain that she had the most beautiful smile he had ever seen, which immediately made him wish that he could see her smile like that more often.

She took his silence as an opportunity to elaborate. "I think I realized it the night you gave me that bouquet of roses. I figured that for you to leave me like you did, when you could have so easily taken advantage of the situation, must imply that I meant something to you. Then, after you left, I found that you were the one on my mind for the rest of the night, rather than the other man I told you about when you were with me. I'd never told anyone else about him until the night I talked to you, but for some reason I felt that I could trust you. Of course, I tried to deny the feelings I was having to myself, but that became more and more difficult to do, especially after we became intimate. But I was too afraid to admit anything to you. I figured it would be easier to wait until you came to the realization that you cared for me too, or broke things off with me because you didn't love me and were tired of me. That way, you would have never known how I really felt about you if you didn't love me."

"I don't know what to say," he admitted after he had listened in amazement to her words.

"Then you don't have to say anything. I think we've both done enough talking for tonight. Let's go to bed," she replied, her smile suddenly changing to the sly, knowing smile that he was more accustomed to.

She always did have the best ideas. "Alright. If you're sure you don't want to talk anymore. I am tired from my flight," he stated thoughtfully, pretending not to have understood her meaning.

She narrowed her eyes playfully and stood from the couch, pulling him along with her. "Well, you'll just have to sleep in tomorrow, won't you?"

They walked hand in hand to his bedroom. She fell asleep in his arms later that night. When he woke up the next morning, she was still laying by his side.

**Part IV- Epilogue**

"Just give me some time." That had been her answer when he'd asked her the question earlier that night. She had hated to see the look of disappointment on his face that her words brought, but she knew that it was the right thing to do. If she were to make her decision too quickly, she would risk hurting herself, as well as him.

Thankfully, he had understood- or so he had said -with that sad look in his eyes that continued to haunt her hours later. "Well, at least take this with you while you're thinking things over," he finally spoke in reply after she gave her answer. She had been surprised when he'd pressed a small box into her hand.

She had protested, of course, but he refused to take it back from her, stating that it was hers to keep no matter what she decided. That made her feel even worse. However, she was resolved in her choice to wait before giving him an answer to his question. She had politely excused herself to go home shortly after that; it would have been impossible for them to continue the evening as if nothing had changed between them.

She looked at the little box then, as it sat there on the dresser in her bedroom. She'd taken it, as he'd wanted, but hadn't opened it. She intended to, but hadn't found the courage to as of yet. She knew that the sight of what was inside would not affect the choice she was going to make one way or the other, but she did fear that it would only make the process of coming to a decision more difficult than it already was.

Her attention wondered from the little box to a larger object sitting near it. She stilled herself and flipped the tiny handle to open the jewelry box, surprised when she found that the action did not instill the same sadness and longing in her that it had for years. She carefully selected a single, familiar object from it. The object was still beautiful, even after all of the years that it had been in her possession, tucked safely away in the jewelry box. It sparkled in the light of her bedroom; the simple gold band gleamed like it was new- she hadn't had the chance to wear it for long, she reflected -and the perfectly cut, albeit small, diamond in the center glittered softly, as if welcoming her touch, her attention after so long.

She placed the object gently on her dresser and reached to open the smaller, velvet box. She had never been one for waiting, for suspense, and was curious to look at what was inside. The sight of the second object made her turn away suddenly. She drew in a deep, sharp breath. She had known what it was, and knew that the man giving it to her wouldn't give her anything less than the best, but looking at it for the first time impacted her, nonetheless.

The brilliance of it easily eclipsed that of the first object; the size of the stone was considerably bigger, though the stone was not big enough to appear ostentatious, and its quality was better. There were smaller diamonds trailing part of the way down the platinum band, platinum being her metal of choice. He knew her well, and his selection only served to prove that fact. She didn't have to try it on to be certain that it would fit her finger perfectly, just like the first object had when she had last worn it years before.

She stepped back to study the two, small pieces as they sat side by side. There was virtually no similarity between the two, except for the fact that she had been presented with both by men who loved her, whose love she returned. She still felt a dull ache in her heart when she looked at the first, older object, but it was no longer the vivid, sharp pain that she had experienced when looking at it up until recent times. She figured that if it hadn't gone by now, the memory of her loss probably never would, but it was made more bearable by the presence of the man in her life who had given her the second object earlier that day. She knew what she had to do.

He opened his door early the next morning and was surprised to see her standing outside. Wordlessly, she stepped forward and extended her left hand, all the while looking into his eyes. He took her hand and glanced down at it with a smile. She was wearing his ring.

**Fin**.


End file.
